Born to Die in Berlin: A Thriller

by Alex Carlson

Lance Corporal Manuel Hernandez’s days in Berlin were numbered. He had been admitted to the Corps’ Scout Sniper Basic Course, which would begin in the spring at Camp Lejeune. That brought up the inevitable talk of rifles and Rhys found himself eager to share. He talked about hunting deer in New Hampshire, about guns and ammunition and hunting laws and regulations. It was the first normal conversation Rhys had had for months. Maybe they both just wanted to drown out the station chief and the ambassador going at each other, but it made Rhys feel once again connected to the world. It was comforting.

  The door to Stirewalt’s office opened and McClellum stormed out. He glared at Rhys as he walked by and Rhys was relieved that he didn’t have to introduce himself. The ambassador was the embassy’s problem, not his. Stirewalt stood inside the door and indicated that Rhys should enter.

  “Adios, Amigo,” Rhys said, shaking the lance corporal’s hand. He regretted the words immediately, not sure if they had been racist in some way.

  “Take care, sir,” Hernandez replied, no offense taken.

  Stirewalt closed the door behind him. “Thank you,” she said as she walked to her desk. “That was good work. There’s nothing on the police chatter to indicate that you were ever there.”

  “Here’s the disk,” he said, handing over the footage of McClellum’s escapades.

  “I won’t be watching that.” She shuddered at the thought. “It’s late. Go home. We can talk about Berlitec tomorrow.” Neither wanted to do a debriefing and Rhys got the feeling she just wanted to sweep the night’s activities under the rug.

  “Fine, but here’s a license plate you should run.” He handed her a slip of paper and told her of the Volkswagen parked outside Berlitec’s facilities. “Unless that’s someone you sent to watch them, someone else is also interested in Berlitec.”

  She didn’t indicate one way or the other whether she had sent a team out there, but if she had, she hadn’t directed them to be discrete. Regardless, she didn’t seem surprised by the information.

  He went home, enduring a cold rain as he rode through the city in the late darkness. The daily life of Berlin would begin in an hour or so. He just wanted to be in bed before it started up again.

  Now, after a good night’s sleep, from which he was able to wake up late, without setting an alarm, he wanted to forget all about the ambassador. It would be a while before his apartment warmed up—despite the advantages, coal heat comes slowly—so he went out to buy coffee, a couple of Brötchen, and the Berliner Zeitung. When he returned, it was warm enough as long as he sat close to the oven.

  The Berliner Zeitung is not the world’s greatest newspaper, but its layout somehow reminded Rhys of the Boston Globe and he read it cover to cover. Internationally, the Syrian conflict still dominated the headlines and there was both an article and an opinion piece about the new American president’s increased support for the Salqin Brigade, a group of rebels fighting the Assad regime. He remembered hearing about that on the radio. Why bother, Rhys wondered. Salqin’s numbers amounted to not much more than a brigade and they’ll be wiped out in any contact with Assad’s forces. Maybe if it were the Salqin Division or Salqin Corps or Salqin Army they’d make a difference. Just stay out of it all, thought Rhys. But the idea of creating peace in the Middle East always seemed to lure new presidents into thinking they would be the one to solve it.

  Done with the paper, he turned his attention to Berlitec. He spent an hour on the company’s website, focusing on the scientists and executives. His initial premise was that if Berlitec were supplying chemicals to Muslim radicals off the books, it was an individual within the company going rogue, not a company-wide conspiracy. The company was doing too well to risk unauthorized production and illegal distribution.

  Stirewalt would have to look into the company’s finances. Rhys was sure German bureaucracy required detailed sales statements to match production orders and it wouldn’t be difficult to find discrepancies. The financial records of the employees would help. Any individual doing this on the side would probably be motivated by money. Tax records and bank accounts would provide enough information to see if anyone was getting any unusual deposits. It would be so much easier to just let the BND shake it all out. But Stirewalt had been adamant about keeping the BND out of it for now. He understood her reluctance, but it didn’t leave him with much to work on.

  The car parked outside Berlitec was the best lead they had. Now what could that be about? Who were they? Chances are it was the BND, who had also stumbled upon the connection between Berlitec and the mosque. Rhys didn’t want to consider what it could mean if it wasn’t the BND.

  Chapter Eleven

  Berlin’s mosques are a source of strength and calm for the city’s Muslim community. Sehitlik Mosque in Neukölln is massive, with space for up to 1,500 people. The mosque is also beautiful, a white traditional structure with towering minarets flanking a large central dome. Another, Ahmadiyya Mosque—known simply as the Berlin Mosque—is the oldest mosque in Germany. Barely surviving the Red Army bombardments of the city in the final days of World War II, the Berlin Mosque reminds of the Taj Mahal in its splendor and majesty. A third noteworthy mosque, Khadija, caused uproar when it was proposed about a decade ago. Appeasing locals who felt threatened by additional minarets in the city, the mosque ended up an architectural compromise, a fusion of Western—with hints of Bauhaus—and Islamic architecture. Its prayer rooms—separate, of course—provide spaces for 250 men and 250 women.

  And then there are other mosques whose architecture is unworthy of comment. They are found near train stations, water plants, and housing projects in Berlin’s less affluent neighborhoods. Many exist in multifunction retail buildings, in spaces that could be used as a community center, a retail outlet, or a large yoga studio. They are small, serving small groups of like-minded men and women who have a particular interpretation of Islam.

  The Blue Crescent Mosque, near the Berlin Südkreuz train station in the southern district of Tempelhof was such a place. It often drew worshippers from the city’s nearby refugee centers, individuals who were often confused, exhausted, even bitter about the turns their lives had taken. Bashir had been visiting the Blue Crescent for months, showing earnestness in prayer and sharing his own quiet frustrations with his life. He absorbed the Friday sermons with eager appreciation. His eyes teared, his voice cracked, his openness to the message unquestioned. To all who cared to notice, Bashir displayed the same qualities of the other worshippers.

  It was a lie. If his eyes teared it was because the intensity displayed by the imam caused a physical reaction. Bashir was a Muslim, but his faith was a source of strength as he navigated the secular world around him. The imam’s words were inspired by frustration and they fueled resentment. Few who worshipped here would ever integrate into Western society. Bashir listened expectantly, knowing that at some point the imam would cross the line and advocate intentional violence against the West. But the imam never did. Did he know the Blue Crescent was bugged? It probably was, Bashir knew. German authorities became aggressive with such matters after it was discovered that many of the nineteen 9/11 hijackers worshipped in similar mosques in Hamburg. Regardless, the imam never crossed the line and Bashir made a promise to himself to analyze the message of the sermons more closely.

  Today’s service ended and Bashir completed his private prayer—to Allah, for forgiveness for dishonestly representing how he worshipped. He folded up his prayer rug and joined a knot of young men who were thanking the imam and appealing for his blessing. The small group of men knew each other well; probably many of them lived together, either in one of the refugee camps or in the housing they received from the government.

  Bashir had made no attempt to join the circle of young men who genuflected toward the imam, though he was open to their friendly questions about his background and belief. His answers were short and vague. He did not try to impress. Let them come to me, he understood. It will make their trust stronger.

  It took months befo
re he had been invited to a private sermon. It was no more extreme than the weekly messages to the congregation, but there were questionable nuggets, interpretations of jihad that were more rigid, less openly spoken in wider circles. When these came up, he felt the others watching for his reaction. He showed salvation, as though he was waiting for someone to articulate what he had always believed. He also showed enlightenment, an eagerness to hear more. Yet not too eager. Again, make them come to me.

  Meanwhile, he heard things, saw connections between people, and watched furtive behavior. Muslim men in Berlin were often macho and it was difficult to see past the bravado to find nefarious intentions. But he detected little subversions. A group of men, for example, greeted each other without the usual ceremonial embraces or blessings, a sign that they had been together and then separated so as to arrive individually. They talked in subdued voices, an admission of secrecy. Yet people kept many secrets. That alone was not proof that their extremism took the concrete form of terrorism.

  It was only when he had heard the name Berlitec that Bashir had contacted his regular handler at the CIA. Before doing so, he googled the company, mostly out of curiosity. He misspelled Berlitec as Berlitech, of course, and got a page of nonsense, but an entry on the second page of results also had misspelled the company’s name and when he clicked on it, the page revealed the company located in the northern part of the city.

  Berlitec was northern Germany’s third largest producer of pesticides and insecticides. Since Bashir could think of no legitimate reason for the young urban men surrounding the imam to be in need of pesticides, he knew it was time to contact his American friends.

  Now, whatever was happening was accelerating. He had earned the imam’s trust enough to be given little assignments and hints were dropped. The increasingly ebullient mood of the imam and his inner circle also suggested that whatever they had planned was falling into place.

  “Bashir,” the imam said after the knot of men had dispersed, “do you have time today to do a favor?”

  “Of course.”

  “Can you drive Mahmoud to Pankow? He needs to pick up a vehicle. Can you do that for me?”

  “Of course.”

  Because Bashir drove a taxi, he was often asked for rides here and there. He hated the taxi, the way it deadened his mind and weakened his body. The hours were long, the earnings inconsistent. But it gave him time to reflect and he never took for granted the peace and opportunities his life in Berlin provided. Perhaps he would have kids one day and he would ensure they would do more than drive taxies. That would be sufficient for him.

  Mahmoud al Taher, on whose behalf the imam had asked for the favor, had been a regular at the Blue Crescent Mosque. He slept in the refugee center established in the abandoned terminal of Berlin’s now-closed Tempelhof Airport. Significantly, he had gained the imam’s trust in a short period of time. He had intelligent eyes, which communicated a friendliness that Bashir always welcomed when he saw him. He was, in fact, the only one at the mosque eager to get to know Bashir better. Though the two men were very different, they were united in their circumstances of being foreigners in a strange culture. That was enough for them to become closer.

  “What is going on, Mahmoud?” Bashir asked once he had pulled into the busy Berlin traffic. “I see things. I hear things. The imam is excited about something.” Bashir knew a little curiosity was less conspicuous than none.

  “We are about to make history, brother.”

  “Allahu Akbar,” said Bashir. The expected response.

  “It will be completed a week from now, Insha’Allah. But what we do today and tomorrow is our part.”

  “Please, tell me more.”

  “Patience, my brother. Patience. It is better not to know for now. Do not worry. You will see.”

  They drove the remaining distance through Berlin’s congested streets without discussing the activities of the mosque. Mahmoud sought dance music on the radio, but was always disappointed with the songs he found. By the time they arrived at the destination, he was still flipping through the stations.

  They turned off the road and drove through the opening of a hurricane fence into the rundown parking lot that served a graffiti-clad brick structure that housed several businesses, most of which dealt in some way with automotive services. Large garage doors suggested some kind of mechanic and piles of old tires out front suggested a tire service. Standing outside an open garage door was a man wearing a button-down shirt tucked into a pair of khakis. Bashir guessed the man was German. He looked soft, thought Bashir. He had a mop of curly hair and glasses and his body was thin. Standing with his hands in his jacket pockets, he looked as though he didn’t want to offend anyone. Bashir assessed him to be the typical non-threatening German male. He didn’t want to prejudge, but the man looked like a scientist. Maybe even a chemist.

  Bashir and Mahmoud got out and Mahmoud, with a friendly smile, shook the German’s hand. Bashir then extended his hand and introduced himself in the German manner of simply stating his name: “Bashir Hamoudeh.”

  “Werner Hohlbein,” came the man’s reply as he offered a weak handshake.

  “Can you wait for me, Bashir?” asked Mahmoud. “If I don’t follow you back, then I’ll get lost.”

  Mahmoud and Werner Hohlbein went inside and Bashir returned to his taxi. It took just a moment. Bashir waited in the car and an old maroon retail van emerged with Mahmoud behind the wheel. Hohlbein walked out and closed the garage door behind him. Mahmoud waved goodbye to Hohlbein, who lifted his fist, almost a sign of solidarity.

  During the drive back, Bashir ensured Mahmoud didn’t get lost. If he drove slowly and erratically, it was because he was multi-tasking. The mirror turned the license plate of the van following him backwards and reading it while texting and driving diminished his driving skills. Maybe all this was innocent, but possibly not. It didn’t sit right with him. The message to Stirewalt was brief: “Something happening today/tomorrow. Run this name and plate: Werner Hohlbein B BT 337.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Adler arrived at Stirewalt’s office at Clayallee at 2:00 p.m. By the time he got there, they had worked up a preliminary sketch of Werner Hohlbein. Back at Langley, analysts were urgently working up a full profile. Bashir’s smidgeon of information would lead to hundreds of work-hours and reams of paper. For now, they’d go over the basics.

  Hohlbein had worked for Berlitec for ten years, starting as a chemist in the lab. As the company grew, he was promoted to the executive hallway, where he now served as the company’s chief quality management officer, a position that included production inspection responsibilities. His biography on Berlitec’s website bragged about his scientific competence, suggesting he still knew his way around a lab.

  Simple Internet searches also revealed that Hohlbein was a lifetime member of Amnesty International and that he had advised Doctors without Borders. Neither of these pieces of information fit the profile of someone connected to a radical mosque, so they ignored them until a pattern emerged.

  “Might Berlitec have an internal network disconnected from the web?” Rhys asked.

  “It’s already being looked into,” said Stirewalt.

  “Also, I have to think that their lab equipment is all digitally monitored. There’d be readouts indicating their production levels. Get someone at Langley to hack their system. If that fails, I could probably go in myself and read it off the equipment. Cross-reference the info with the records they’ve submitted to regulators and maybe we can find a discrepancy. Hohlbein would be in a position to fudge the books.”

  “If the elicit production was recent, the regulators wouldn’t have matching records whether it was off the books or not. Besides, finding a discrepancy would require penetrating German systems. I’m not ready to commit to that. And we’re not at the stage yet where you’ll be breaking into Berlitec.”

  “Then focus on Hohlbein,” said Rhys, an edge in his voice.

  “The case against him is thin.”
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  “Lucinda, he personally delivered something to members of a local mosque. And did so in a garage in Pankow.” Rhys started to doubt Stirewalt’s commitment to the case. Maybe she wasn’t telling him everything. “Why are we doing this if we’re not going to look at all the angles?”

  “I’m just trying to push you, Rhys. What else do you have?”

  “See if Hohlbein owns a new Audi.” Rhys was thinking about the shiny car he saw in Berlitec’s parking lot.

  “I’m not digging deep into a German national. Sarge prohibited it.”

  “Have the BND do it.”

  “We’re not there yet.”

  “Dammit, Lucinda. What are we doing here? Why’d you bring me in at all if there’s nothing we can do?”

  Stirewalt’s assistant came in without knocking and handed the station chief a file. His presence took the tension out of the room. Stirewalt glanced through it, grabbed a sharpened yellow pencil out of a holder that held a couple dozen of them and circled various things on a page in the file.

  “The car you saw staking out Berlitec last night?”

  “The Volkswagen?”

  “The plates don’t match the description of the vehicle on file at the registry. They tried to contact the owner of the plates at work. He wasn’t there, but a colleague said the guy was on vacation.”

  “Which means the plates were probably stolen off a car at the long-term parking lot at the airport.” Rhys knew who used that technique. “Why would the Russians be interested in Berlitec?”

  “Same reason we are?”

  “Maybe. Doubtful, but it’s possible.”

  Rhys had no idea how it all fit together and he got the impression Lucinda didn’t know either.

  “Listen, I understand you’re reluctant to push too deep with Hohlbein, but can we agree on a don’t ask, don’t tell policy? Just give me some freedom. I’m off the books anyway, so you’d have plausible deniability.